


you've got to crack a few

by a_radar_technician



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Belly Kink, Implied/Referenced Tentacles, M/M, Oviposition, Redemption Through Mysterious Eggpregnancy to an Eldritch Being, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, mostly quite canon-compliant actually
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-25
Updated: 2020-11-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:53:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27705149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_radar_technician/pseuds/a_radar_technician
Summary: A good officer is a well groomed officer, and Hux holds himself to the same standards he demands from his subordinates. His hair must be coiffed. His face must be smooth-shaven. His breeches must be perfectly starched, and his greatcoat must hang so as to conceal the bulge of incubating eggs inside his abdomen.
Relationships: Poe Dameron/Armitage Hux
Comments: 5
Kudos: 41
Collections: We <3 Bellies - Round 1





	you've got to crack a few

**Author's Note:**

  * For [applecore](https://archiveofourown.org/users/applecore/gifts).



The final step in Hux’s morning routine, before he leaves his quarters to start the day’s work, is a long look in the floor length mirror on the back of his ‘fresher door. 

A good officer is a well groomed officer, and Hux holds himself to the same standards he demands from his subordinates. His hair must be coiffed. His face must be smooth-shaven. His breeches must be perfectly starched, and his greatcoat must hang so as to conceal the bulge of incubating eggs inside his abdomen. As he adjusts his uniform, he prods the belly bulging around his loosened belt. The eggs shift beneath his skin. One swells to the front, the shape of it momentarily visible through his shirt. Hux groans. 

Early on in his incubation, any movement of the eggs would cause a second bulge, even less suited for public view than the first. But as time has gone on, Hux has found himself losing interest in his cock. The sensations in his guts are like nothing he’s ever felt. Erections come and go, but the rounded hardness of the eggs is with him all the time. Sometimes they move inside him as he walks. More than once he has had to glare down a colleague who saw him stop partway down a corridor to lean against the wall, knees weak from the sudden reminder of his fullness.

He does his best with the uniform. The greatcoat hangs straight and loose, concealing his figure from the sides if not completely from the front. The resulting view suggests nothing more than that Hux has been enjoying the lavish dining options available to his rank. His father used to wear years worth of steak dinners and whiskey nightcaps around his middle. Anyone who knows how Hux feels about his late father – anyone who values their life – should know better than to suggest so much as the whisper of a comparison. But they’ll think it, quietly, to themselves, and the true cause of Hux’s new physique will stay secret.

He knows he should be frightened by what’s happening to his body. Or, at the very least, he should be frightened by the fact that he’s not frightened, by the evidence of his inexplicably compromised judgement. But it’s as if all his self-protective instincts have been squeezed out to make more room in his abdomen. How can something that feels so good be wrong? His condition has caused him no obvious harm. His belly has stretched effortlessly to accommodate the eggs. A cold, empty place inside Hux is now warm and full and bright with life, and the only thing that bothers him about the situation is the risk that, if discovered, someone might take his eggs away.

So he goes to work as normal. If a few keen-eyed colleagues think he’s grown to resemble his father, so be it.

* * *

It all started with that Resistance pilot, Poe Dameron. His capture at Tuanul was a testament to the skill of Hux’s troops, no matter how Kylo Ren tried to steal credit. Hux meant to conduct the interrogation himself, and doubtless he’d have succeeded in extracting all the information he wanted if not for the … the _thing_ that burst out of Dameron as Hux was fixing his restraints. What happened between them will live forever in the shadow realm of things Hux only recalls under cover of darkness, fervently massaging his belly until his cock spurts untouched from the internal stimulation of the rolling, shifting eggs. At no other time does he allow himself to think about it.

But it happened, and afterwards, he was too spent to stop Ren from taking over the interrogation. Too frantically busy to address the consequences, what with the rebel attack on Starkiller Base, and the Battle of Crait, and the coup that raised Ren into Snoke’s old position and threw the whole First Order into chaos. Even if he’d had time, he’s not sure what he would have done. His ability to research his condition is limited by his need to keep it secret. Droids supply basic medical care and are memory-wiped after each visit. Aides are banned from entering his quarters on penalty of death.

The real surprise is that he’s managed to keep it from Ren. The wretch is no Snoke, but his nasty little magic tricks have a habit of guiding him straight to the dark corners where Hux doesn’t want him to look. The likely explanation is that Ren is distracted. With no training for leadership, his usurped responsibilities are too much for him by orders of magnitude. So deeply is he buried in his ineptly managed workload that even his overlarge nose can’t stick out far enough to get in Hux’s business.

But Hux is distracted too, and sometimes, in his distraction, a strange thought comes to him: that Ren doesn’t sense Hux’s condition because he isn’t meant to. That somehow, the eggs that have found their nesting place inside him don’t want to be found.

Not until they’re ready.

* * *

In the officer’s mess, he gorges on the batch-cooked meals they serve around the clock. His personal chef works on a schedule and requires notice to change it, but Hux wants food _now._ The eggs have exposed a hedonistic streak: he enjoys the full-to-bursting sensation of his stomach pushing eggs aside to make room for his meal. He enjoys the heaviness. The sleepiness. The bloating. Enjoys the way his belly strains against his belt.

A group of nearby officers cast furtive looks his way. Their conversation dropped to a hush when he came in – a rare event, since Hux usually eats alone – and he suspects it will continue at a hush long after he’s gone. He commits their names to memory between mouthfuls of meat and dumplings. They’ll find themselves on unpleasant assignments soon enough. He’ll eat tasty meals intended for them while they ship off to remote bases where there’s little gossip and no galley at all and the only source of nutrition comes from the same rations they extrude in bulk to feed the stormtroopers.

He expects the thought to please him, but it doesn’t. It feels hollow. He plugs the gap with another large mouthful and pictures, unbidden, a galaxy where everyone gets to feel as full as he does.

In bed at night, he struggles to find a comfortable position as the eggs weigh on his insides with every toss and turn. He discreetly orders extra pillows, and wipes the droid that brings them to his quarters before sending it away. Side-sleeping proves easiest. He can tuck one pillow between his thighs and another under his bulging belly, with his arm wrapped around himself as though to shield the eggs from a nighttime attack. Slow, gentle self-massage soothes him to sleep.

Some nights he dreams of Dameron and those thick, pulsing tentacles that surprised Hux in the interrogation chamber. He dreams of running to Dameron’s side to deliver his clutch and bending over to be pumped full straight away with another. More this time. More, until he’s too heavy with eggs to do anything except lie there and incubate. In his dreams, Hux arranges matters so he never has to be empty of eggs again.

He wakes confused and adds the dreams to the growing list of things he’s not allowed to dwell on during daylight hours. He rolls out of bed, inhales his breakfast, covers his bulge and goes to work. Aside from a few extra hours spent hiding in the ‘fresher so he can rub his belly till he shivers with bliss, Hux’s life goes on as normal.

* * *

Normal, though, is a relative term. The situation is precarious. To an extent it always has been: Hux’s climb up the First Order command chain was a long and hard one, and the links are slipperiest right at the top where he’s clinging now. But it’s been getting worse. Ren’s ascension has introduced an element of unpredictability Hux never had to deal with under Snoke.

He gets summoned for duty at all hours of the day and night, rolling his egg-heavy body out of bed to stagger up to the bridge for a briefing on Ren’s latest harebrained scheme. One evening he receives a summons in the middle of a vigorous belly massage session, and he reports for duty with his guts so full of disrupted pleasure that it’s all he can do to keep his hands behind his back instead of feeling the eggs through his clothes in front of everyone. He gets a strange look from Ren that day, and a brief, puzzled glance at his abdomen. Even that idiot can only stay oblivious for so long.

Things bother Hux that never used to bother him before. The old thrill he got from the First Order’s cutthroat politics is gone: it’s all so empty, so avoidable. It’s a desperate attempt by frightened, angry people to fill a void inside them that will never be filled for as long as they keep fighting. When he sleeps, he dreams of a new galactic order, not ruled by his regime or by the filthy New Republic but by higher beings whose inscrutable purpose seems to hatch from somewhere inside Hux himself. In his dreams, his distended belly holds answers too great for the human mind to grasp. He wakes with both hands folded protectively over the bulge, kneading and feeling the delightful shape of one egg after another rolling to the front of the clutch.

A badly planned operation fails after Ren ignores all the advice from more experienced strategists and orders his generals to follow the riskiest possible mission scenario. In his self-inflicted frustration when the news returns – sans most of the soldiers he sent out to fight – Ren throws a temper tantrum that ends with Hux lifted clean off his feet by the Force, gasping through a constricted windpipe.

It’s happened before and it’s never been Hux’s favourite game. But this time, it’s different – this time, there’s _rage._ Hux’s vision washes red at the threat to his body – to the eggs inside it, depending on him for shelter. It surprises Ren so much that he drops Hux at once. Hux flees the bridge before his brand new fighting spirit can drive him to do something fatally stupid like attack Ren in retaliation. His swollen belly jiggles with each stride. The eggs feel like they’re rattling inside him, as though somehow, they’re angry too.

The flames burn down, but the embers smoulder.

It’s only a matter of time until his secret gets exposed.

The next day, Hux sends a message on every encrypted subchannel he knows, searching for a way to get a message to the Resistance.

* * *

It takes time to earn their trust. A tip-off here. A ship schematic there. No mention yet of who the source is. Hux isn’t sure they’ll come if they know that the person helping them now is the architect of so many of their struggles.

As surely as he adapted to the eggs, he adapts to the abrupt reversal of his whole life’s purpose: undermining Ren feels _good._ Perhaps the First Order was worth serving with Snoke at its helm. Perhaps it wasn’t. Either way, Hux sheds no tears at the thought that soon, with his help, the regime will shatter. It’s better this way. The shards will make good feed for his hatchlings.

He’s so heavy with them. They’ll be coming soon.

The war goes on. Hux spies and sneaks and stays out of Ren’s choking range. Finally his rescue comes, and it’s Dameron, standing bold as brass with half a dozen stormtroopers pointing blasters at his head. Hux hasn’t been physically near him since the interrogation. He’d almost forgotten how impossibly handsome the man is, even with his tentacles tucked away. With jelly knees and a squirming gut, Hux blasts their captors and reveals himself as the spy.

Dameron’s face lights up. ‘I knew it!’

‘No you did not,’ says the traitor FN-2187, bug-eyed beside him. But Hux knows. Dameron knows. Shared understanding passes between them like a jolt of electricity.

They escape together on the once-loathed _Millenium Falcon._ Settling his egg-heavy body on the threadbare medical bunk of an enemy freighter, Hux feels safer than he has all year.

* * *

‘For the record,’ Dameron tells him, ‘I had no idea this would happen. I don’t normally … I mean, I have no idea where the tentacles came from. I sure as hell wasn’t born with them.’

They’re alone together in an empty bunk room on the ship. Hux, giddy with the success of his scheme, has thrown caution to the wind and exposed his swollen belly to the man who swelled it. Every line of Dameron’s face says shock. But his eyes say something else. His throat bobs. ‘Can I…’

Hux nods. Carefully, as though soothing a spooked fathier, Dameron reaches out and puts a hand on Hux’s belly.

The groan is an accident. It’s just that Hux has never felt anything like it before: his own experiments, his fervent self-massage sessions, pale in comparison to the feeling of Dameron touching his belly. For months now his head has been full of peculiar eldritch thoughts, of new world orders and the will of beings too vast to fathom. But when Dameron touches Hux, those thoughts melt away. The feeling is raw. Biological. It belongs to Hux and Hux alone. He’s swollen to bursting with round, heavy eggs, and he wants Dameron to knead them through his skin until he comes in his breeches like the shameless human animal he is beneath the well-starched layers.

‘Keep doing that,’ he says. And Dameron does.

It’s frantic. Urgent. Stubble rasps on Hux’s clean-shaven cheeks as they kiss, and Dameron sweeps him onto the bunk on his back with his belly bulging between them. Dameron kneads. Strokes. Kisses Hux’s navel, licks his stretched skin, digs his fingers in and squeezes. Hux moan. Keeps moaning. He’s never done anything like this before, never let down his guard and yielded to a lover’s attentions. Sex is meant to be brisk, efficient, and within his control. But that’s not how Dameron does it.

He pulls Hux up onto his hands and knees and strips him, pulling his breeches down over his thighs to expose his ass. A spit-slick finger nudges Hux’s hole. The other hand supports his belly, still rubbing, kneading, squeezing until it’s all Hux’s trembling limbs can do to hold him up. His cock hangs hard between his legs. ‘Don’t,’ he snarls, when Dameron’s hand drifts lower to stroke it. ‘Just…’ He guides it back to his belly. Dameron makes a rough sound in the back of his throat. 

The tentacles make no appearance this time. Maybe they will again, when Hux needs refilling with eggs, but for now their work is done and it’s just Dameron. Dameron’s slicked cock easing inside Hux, filling him until there’s no room left in his overstuffed body for rational thought. Dameron’s strong hands wrapping around his abdomen, massaging the eggs, holding him steady. Dameron’s hot breath on the back of his neck. Dameron’s tongue teasing the shell of his ear. 

‘This is insane,’ Dameron says, breathless. ‘I can’t believe how hot you are like this. I can’t…’ He pushes deep, breath catching. ‘Can’t think straight.’

‘I know the feeling,’ Hux gasps in reply. Each thrust brushes his prostate and makes the eggs lurch. Every last snug nook of his abdomen is being stimulated from the inside. He’s so full. So exquisitely, unbearably full. 

‘You shouldn’t be talking,’ Dameron says, and thrusts harder until Hux can’t. He’s going to come like this. It’s building already, pulsing in his balls, in his untouched cock. He bites his pillow and hangs on desperately, inside muscles clenching. He wants Dameron to come first. Wants it harder, wants it rougher, wants Dameron to – wants –

Wants – 

There.

Dameron’s coming, pounding Hux’s ass with mindless, erratic force, and Hux is gone too, pleasure spiking in his cock and rolling in his abdomen. He comes until there’s nothing left. They collapse together on the bunk. Dameron pulls Hux close from behind, arm draped around his middle.

‘I really don’t want to spoon you,’ Dameron says at last. ‘It’s just that I don’t want to stop touching your belly.’

Hux doesn’t want him to stop either. The strange, eldritch voice inside him purrs at the safe sensation of a lover cradling his swollen clutch. ‘Just shut up and don’t overthink it,’ he tells Dameron. ‘It’s what I’ve been doing for the last year.’

Any day now, his eggs will be ready to come out and hatch. He’s where he needs to be. The voice that haunts his dreams is happy, and the rest of him is too well sated to care.

They fall asleep like that, two enemies united by pleasure and the promise of a new world order that Hux has nearly – so nearly – finished incubating.

Soon. Any day now. 


End file.
